


Handprints

by windandthestars



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Episode S04E02 Uprising, Episode Tag, F/M, Kink, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to see her, watch her, when she's Helen, when she's alone, when he knows she's not trying to be who she think she was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handprints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenitymeimei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitymeimei/gifts).



> Episode tag for Uprising. Early season 4 spoilers. Verbal humiliation.
> 
> For Heather who asked for black silk, a full length mirror, and the first time after the events of 4x01.

There's something swirling around his foggy brain behind the need for coffee. He's already tossed the half empty pot from the day before, the brown sludge sour as it trickled down the drain. She'd been gone three days and yet he's finding old habits hard to kick.

He yawns and shoves the kettle onto the range watching the orange-blue flames lick against the blackened bottom. He sets out two black teabags and pulls the bag of white sugar from the back of the pantry shelf with a quiet grunt. There wasn't enough sugar in the world to make that amount of tea go down smoothly.

He's tempted to make her a cup, take it to her. He knows she's up, the light under her door had been on when he'd wandered by, taking the longer route down to the kitchen moments before. He doesn't want to sit with her though, sit and make small talk. He can't bear the thought of sitting there and pretending. What had been three days to him had been a hundred and thirteen years to her; three of his lives lived over in less than a week.

He doesn't want to inquire about the years he knows she must have spent in Italy, or ask about the new calluses on her hands that had been so rough against the fabric of his shirt the day before. He wants to see her, watch her, when she's Helen, when she's alone, when he knows she's not trying to be who she think she was. He doesn't want her to have to pretend to be someone else for him, because of him.

He doesn't want to think of her living another lifetime without him, but he will. It's inevitable after all. He's the one that was always telling her it would be ok. He knew she would change without him, grow, shift, become someone else. Even so, it's a reality he hasn't yet allowed himself to face.

The kettle is silent and then begins to sigh. He pulls it from the stove, listening to the water hiss angrily against its sides.

The caffeine eases the tightness between his eyes and clears the fog from his mind, but it does nothing to ease the longing pulling at his chest. It's aggravating, this unease, without her joking reassurances. He wonders if she feels the same way, if she knows, or if she's forgotten. He can't really blame her, but he does all the same. It's petty and irrational, par for the course when you're in love with your immortal boss he supposes bitterly.

He washes his mug and flips it upside down in the sink to dry. The Big Guy will be in soon to start breakfast and he's not in the mood to chat over frying eggs and charred bread.

Up a flight of stairs and he's reversing the route he had taken earlier past her room. The door's ajar now and he peaks in around the doorjamb. He half expects to find her curled on the sofa reading, but he knows from the grey-black light filling the room she's moved farther back into the space. 

The second door's hardly cracked but he has no qualms about pushing it open, carefully. It's silent as it always is, yielding to his touch without a sound. He starts to take a step forward and then stops, hand still clamped around wooden door.

It's not the sight of her, wound in a silk dressing gown that stops him, but the soft moan that had snuck past her half parted lips. She has one hand resting on her thigh, knee bent and pressed forward. Her thumb shifts up toward her hip, pushing the dark fabric aside, her other hand wrapped tightly around the wood trimmed, full-length mirror.

"Magnus." 

She doesn't stir, doesn't move, but her eyes meet his in the mirror almost as if she had been expecting him. Her eyes widen, darkening with sudden adrenaline as he crosses the room in long strides flattening himself against her, his hands hard against hers, pressing her palms flat against the glass of the mirror.

"Don't move." He snarls and he feels her exhale shudder through her entire body, sees her throat shift as she swallows.

His own pulse quickens as he shifts his weight, resting one of his feet between hers. They're close, closer than they've been in far too long, her entire body canted forward, leaning toward his hands still harsh against her skin. It would be so easy now, with him distracted by the way her pupils dilate slightly with each shared breath for her to rock back against his bent knee, and ease the need he knows they share.

She won't, not now, not with the way her mouth has fallen open, her tongue held against the back of her upper teeth, a long practiced meditation.

He leans his face against her check and breathes in, warm and sweet, then turns, exhaling, to watch a flush creep up her chest.

"I bet you'd come right now if I told you to." He snickers and she moans, face pinched in sudden concentration. "All that time and still so needy."

Her hands are vibrating, trembling as she whines. She's never been good with this, with wanting, not with the way his voice has dropped low and dangerous.

"After you come I'm going to fuck you right here until the mirror's smeared with your greedy handprints. I wonder how long it would take you to come again, watching me fuck you."

There's a hiss on the end of ever rapid breath now, her eyes pressed shut against the reflection of his knowing grin.

"Look at me Magnus." He knows she can't, won't. She's held suspended by the last of her stubbornness, waiting for his permission.

"Magnus." He allows his voice to soften. "Look at me, sweetheart. I want to see those beautiful eyes."

Her lashes flutter, damp with tears, and then she meets his eye with a vulnerability that pulls the air from his lungs.

He cants his hips gently against hers and watches the last of her control shatter. His name falls, fumbled and half-choked from her lips before her eyes lock on his, and she stands as if suspended for a moment before her feet slip against the floor looking for purchase.

“Fuck,” she mutters to herself a moment later, her eye now fixed on their hands still pressed against the mirror she misses the surprise, the sadness that flickers momentarily across his face. “I’m sorry, Will. I-“ She draws in a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have baited you like that. Not after,” she doesn’t finish the rest of the statement but meets his eye in the mirror instead, smiling sadly.

He wants to disagree but the words are complicated and would take to long to find. Now is not the time for that. He shakes his head and buries a kiss in her hair. “You should get dressed. They’ll be waiting for you for breakfast.”


End file.
